Lovely Little Lunatics
by The Buddy System
Summary: A completely nonsensical little story featuring myself and friends. Not really a Fanfiction, but a go-to when I've got writer's block. Read for the lulz.
1. Preface

**A/N:**

**Okay, so I really don't know why I called this a preface. I guess "Really Long Author's Note Section That Readers Will Most Likely Skip Over" was too long.**

**Anyway…**

**This isn't a Fanfiction, obviously. This is just a humorous little story featuring myself and a few friends. It has no consistent plot, and each chapter has a different scenario. I suppose one could say that this is what I do when I have writer's block and lack the ability to come up with anything with real structure. A way to get all of those jumbled up words in my head written down without having a brain aneurism, if you will. Just for the record, the people in this story are generally not as stupid as they may seem portrayed here. They're all actually quite intelligent—I just like making people feel dumb. …Well, maybe that's not the best way to put it…**

**E-hem.**

**That said, I still plan to write actual Fanfiction. That's what the site is for, no? So, if you run out of things to read or just need a dose of pure stupidity to brighten up your day, feel free to advance to the first _real_ chapter of this story.**

**But let me warn you.**

**The pure idiocy that the following chapters contain may be too much for any even _remotely _sane human being to handle. Proceed with caution. Read at your own risk. If the stupidity makes your head explode, it's your own fault.**

**You have been warned.**


	2. The Ginger, The Nail Bug and The Nyancat

"Chey, dearest friend of mine," I murmured, my voice calmer than I would have expected, considering the circumstances. "Would you kindly refrain from poking me while I'm trying to write?" I had been putting up with repetitive jabs in the side by a certain redhead for the past five or so minutes, and the incessant prodding was distracting me from the task at hand: attempting, futilely of course, to get over the massive writer's block I'd been suffering from for the duration of the summer.

"Thorry," came the instant response, and the single finger that had been being repeatedly thrust against my ribcage for the longest time suddenly disappeared. However, my friend's head was now blocking my laptop screen, her pale, freckled face about an inch and a half from mine. "Whatcha doin'?" If Cheyenna's head hadn't been in the way, the question probably would have made me facepalm.

"Writing," I stated bluntly, giving her a blank stare.

"I see," she responded, and seemed to ponder my response for a short while, adopting a grave expression as though she were taking it very seriously. This went on for a full thirty seconds (the longest I'd ever seen Cheyenna sit still without having her nose in a book) before she dropped the serious face and stared at me with sparkly eyes—the gaze of a truly ADHD child. "Whatcha writin' about?" One of my facial muscles twitched—at this point, the earlier-thought-of facepalm was going to become necessary.

"Absolutely nothing," I deadpanned back, gesturing to the blank Word document on my laptop screen, irritation coloring my voice. "But that _could_ be because of a certain redhead that won't leave me alone long enough to type a single word." I waved my hand dismissively, as though shooing away a bothersome insect. "But that's just a theory."

Green eyes, depicting all the innocence of an excited puppy and then some, stared back into mine, and I felt a stab of guilt. "Or," I amended, suddenly getting an idea. "It _could _be because of that bug over there." I pointed to a small black spot on the wall opposite where the two of us were sitting. In truth, it wasn't a bug, but the head of a small nail that had been driven into the wall at one point or another. "Be a dear and go kill it for me?" I figured that the task of going homicidal-ginger on a non-existent bug would keep my friend busy, if only for a few moments.

"But bugs have feelings!" Cheyenna protested, her lower lip jutting out in a full-on pout. "Bugs are people too!"

I could only stare at her then, dumbstruck by the stupidity of her last statement and also somewhat impressed—that needed to be printed on a T-shirt. While I gawked at my friend for a moment longer, the part of my mind that was amused by stupid things conjured up a strange mental image of Cheyenna wearing a "bugs are people too!" T-shirt. This time I could resist the urge no longer—I facepalmed, effectively snapping myself out of it.

My sudden moment of self-abuse must have scared Cheyenna, because she stood up without another word and crossed the room, picking up a random flip-flop. Somewhat relieved, I turned my attention back to my computer screen, ignoring the dull throbbing that had started in my head; whether the cause of the pain was the impact of the facepalm or just my friend's lunacy remained unknown. However, it was soon amplified by the sudden loud, repetitive impact of a flip-flop on drywall. Once again, my attention was drawn away from the computer screen as I watched Cheyenna brutally massacre the nail-bug, brandishing the shoe as though it were the most powerful of weapons.

I watched the scene quietly for a little over two minutes before calling out to her; part of me (the part that was amused by stupid things) was curious to see how long my friend could pummel the wall. However, the rational part of me knew that the odds of Cheyenna's energy supply dwindling before the drywall gave way weren't in my favor.

"Cheyenna," I called, just loudly enough to be heard over the thundering of flip-flop-powered fury. Any louder and my head might have exploded.

The redhead stopped her assault on the nail-bug for an instant, turning her attention to me and tilting her head to the side like a curious anime character.

"The bug is dead," I informed her, but she seemed skeptical, glancing at the black spot as though she expected it to get up and do a little dance.

"But it's still—"

"DEAD."

Casting a glance at the head of the nail, Cheyenna reluctantly dropped her weapon—but not before giving the iron-insect one last harsh _thwack!_ in a final act of defiance.Abandoning the discarded flip-flop, she returned to her spot next to me, a somewhat smug look on her face; I could tell that her brutal assassination of the nail-bug had made her feel very accomplished.

"Whatcha doin'?" she inquired again, peeking over my shoulder at the still-blank Word document. I bit down hard on my lower lip, resisting the urge to go and find something heavy to hit her with. After three seconds of silence from me, the redhead realized that she wasn't going to receive a reply, and decided to end the short silence. Her method of doing so turned out to be a loudly announced "I'm boooo-oored!" She actually broke the word into two separate syllables to make a point.

At this rate, I knew I wasn't going to breaking through the writer's block anytime soon. I needed a way to distract my highly-ADHD friend; a task that was easier said than done.

"Cheyenna," I said quietly, looking up at the girl next to me while simultaneously stuffing my hand into my pocket to retrieve my iPod. I handed the electronic device to her. "Entertain yourself."

Perplexed by the piece of technology that had been placed in her hand, Cheyenna pressed the button on the top of the iPod and the device sparkled to life, displaying an array of apps and games that I hoped would keep my friend occupied for a while. I averted my gaze back to my laptop screen, closing my eyes and attempting to find a way to convert my thoughts to words.

They snapped back open a moment later as my iPod's speaker began to blare the most annoying song I had ever heard in my life—a song so maddening that I immediately cursed the day I'd decided that it would be a good idea to download the horrid thing.

Cheyenna, however, seemed to be very entertained by the dreadful beat and horribly screwed up lyrics. She bobbed her head, giggling like a lunatic. To my utter horror and dismay, she picked up on the repetitive lyrics rather quickly and began to sing along.

"I like German sparkle party. I like German sparkle party. Very German sparkle party. German German sparkle party." She seemed to be greatly enjoying herself, and I could only stare, my mouth hanging open the slightest bit. "Do you like to party party? Yes, I like to party party. Do you like to dancy dance? Yes, I wore my party pants!"

"Cheyenna…?" I murmured, trying to catch her attention—she was sort of freaking me out at this point. She ignored my attempts, only turning the volume of the highly unpleasant song up to a maximum.

"I like German sparkle party. Very hardcore sparkle party. German German sparkle party. Hardcore sparkle party."

I could only watch, transfixed by the stupidity, as the redhead bounced in her seat, grinning as she continued to sing the song. She'd actually adopted a terrible German accent to match the song. "Yes, I wore my rubber boots! Yes, I wore my rubber boots! Rubber boots to dancy dance, rubber boots and party pants!" She then imitated the very intoxicated-sounding high-pitched giggle of the male singer and stood up, showing off a few unrelated and uncoordinated dance moves. "Feels good to dance!" she crowed, and I twitched. "Very _nice_ to dance! Hardcore dance!"

Unable to bear the horrid scene any longer, I snatched the iPod out of her hand, turning off the song and handing the device back to her. "No more German sparkle party," I begged, and she gave me a dirty look before plopping back down onto the couch. Praying that she didn't go back to my playlists, I peeked at the screen and let out a relieved sigh when she opened the video list instead. There wasn't much there—a few music videos and comical clips; surely nothing that my friend could use to continue the torment that she was unwittingly putting me through.

I realized then that I was wrong. Dead wrong. So dead wrong, in fact, that the very concept of correctness was lying in a corner somewhere by itself, dying of some horrible disease that was the very manifestation of wrongness, brought into being by stupidity.

Cheyenna, being the person she was (that is, being drawn to anything and everything that oozed some form of idiocy or another), had managed to find the _one_ video on the list that was capable of causing brain damage and/or internal bleeding. Any sane person would have given me a strange look and questioned why I had a video on my iPod that depicted a Poptart-cat hybrid shooting rainbows from its back end and singing as it flew through space at high speeds. Cheyenna simply sat and stared at the screen, eyes sparkling as she hummed along to the painfully-repetitive song that continued on for an extent of about six minutes or so.

My laptop let out a beep of protest as my face met the keyboard.


	3. That's Just Special

I don't generally make it a habit to stare into pots of water. Then again, I don't generally make it a habit to attempt to cook, since I am aware that my sheer lack of skill in doing so could quite possibly end with my house being reduced to a pile of flaming debris. But there's a first time for everything. Granted, I wasn't really cooking—cooking implies the use of a bit more effort than boiling water for instant ramen. Or trying to boil water, rather; I'd been watching the flat, clear surface of the water in the pot on the stove for several minutes, and nothing seemed to be happening. No simmering, no bubbles, nothing. However, the way I was staring at it, I was beginning to wonder if I would suddenly acquire laser vision and boil the water that way.

I started when I heard the creak and click of the front door, which I'd originally thought to have been locked. Sparing a glance at the pot on the stove, I figured it safe to leave it for a moment while I went to investigate—it wasn't making much progress anyway.

"Hello…?" I called, stepping into the living room and glancing around cautiously. The room was silent, and I would have thought I'd imagined the sound in the first place were the front door not standing wide open. Thoroughly confused as well as somewhat freaked out, I stepped over to the door and pushed it closed, shivering as the chill wind from outside met my bare arms and making a mental note to go change into a shirt with longer sleeves. I took a step back, still staring at the door and half expecting it to either open again on its own or jump off its hinges and do a little jig.

"Maybe the wind blew it open," I murmured quietly, breaking the silence in the room with the soft sound of my voice. I wasn't sure whether I was actually trying to figure out how the door had opened or just giving myself a logical explanation to go by so that I wouldn't begin thinking that there was now some kind of creeper lurking somewhere in my house.

After several moments of silence and staring at the door intently enough to burn a hole in it were such things possible, I calmed a little bit and shrugged the incident off, chalking it up to one of those weird things that no one will ever find an explanation for. Finally tearing my gaze from the white paint and shiny doorknob, I turned around and took a step in the direction of the kitchen… only to be promptly tackled by a large mass that apparently possessed the ability to cackle like a hyena on some kind of illegal substance. The only thing I had time to register before I received a lovely faceful of beige carpet was that said giggling life form had a human shape.

It's difficult to scream when your face is pressed into the floor, so the panicky sounds I was making only came out as muffled squeaks and the occasional muted insult directed at whoever was pinning me down. Those were soon abandoned, however, as I quickly realized that it's also difficult to _breathe _when you're face-to-floor with, well, the floor. The terrified-yet-enraged-but-also-really-quiet noise I was making was using up my air supply, and I eventually fell silent in the hope that my assailant would get bored if I wasn't flailing about and trying to scream.

"I don't know what you just said," a familiar voice deadpanned close to my ear, "but I have a feeling it wasn't very nice…"

Rage fueling a sudden burst of energy, I rolled onto my side, throwing the owner of the voice off and thoroughly enjoying the loud thud I perceived as that of a body making harsh contact with a bookcase. "What the _heck_ was that for?" I demanded, shooting daggers at the girl on the floor, who was rubbing her head where it had clunked against the piece of furniture. Then it occurred to me that she was actually there, and I was suddenly highly confused. "Better yet," I cut in as she opened her mouth to reply, "What the heck are you doing here?"

"Suffering from acute head trauma," she responded bluntly, still rubbing at her head and glaring daggers in my general direction—her eyes were kind of crossed from the impact, so I wasn't sure whether or not she was actually looking right at me.

"Perhaps that wouldn't be the case if you hadn't flung a hundred-something pounds of Alex at me," I shot back, paying no mind to the scowl I received in return. "How am I supposed to react when I'm tackled by someone bigger than me?"

Alex stopped rubbing her head, her eyes seeming to refocus on me. "Isn't that last part sort of redundant?" she questioned, and I blinked. "I mean, _everyone's_ bigger than you."

Rather than bothering to come up with some kind of witty comeback, I contented myself with throwing a shoe—the closest object to my person at the time—at my cousin's head. It bounced off with an almost animated sound effect and landed on the carpet with a soft _whump._ Alex wailed and rubbed her head again, only succeeding in making her hair stand up from an excessive amount of static electricity which, to be honest, was enough to get a giggle out of me.

"You… You—" She stammered, angered by the humor I apparently derived from her moment of pain. I arched an eyebrow.

"Use your words, Alex," I encouraged, as though speaking to a very young child, and that only enraged her further, giving her reason enough to snatch up the discarded shoe and fling it forcefully my way. Leaning to the side to avoid the flying footwear, I could only watch in silent amusement as the sneaker-turned-projectile bounced harmlessly off a wall and thudded to the floor. "Was that supposed to hit me?" I asked innocently after about sixty or so conversation-deprived seconds. I was rewarded with a pillow-smack to the face, and I glared as the fluffy weapon fell into my lap.

Rather than launching a counter attack, I simply knocked the pillow to the side and stared at Alex blankly. "Other than throwing inanimate objects in my general direction," I began, earning a glower from the girl across from me. "What are you doing here?"

She rolled her eyes, and I couldn't help but be reminded of the three-fourths of the entire female population between the ages of eleven and twenty in need of a major attitude adjustment. "I told you already," she enunciated, as though each syllable had to be drilled individually into my head since I'd apparently not heard her correctly the first time. "Suffering from acute—"

I cut her off with a rather loud and abrupt "_Why _are you in my _house_?"

She blinked several times. "Oh," she said simply, and I suppressed the rising desire to either strangle her or hit her with something much heavier than a pillow—violence is unladylike, or so I've been told. Alex shrugged and twisted a strand of dark hair around her fingers. "I's visitin'," she said ungrammatically, blinking again.

I stared at her in silence for about thirty seconds, digesting this tidbit of information. I decided not to question her any further and just disregard how odd it was that she was randomly visiting after moving several states away only weeks before.

"Well then, I guess you're—" I stopped speaking when I noticed that Alex was no longer leaning idly against the bookshelf like some kind of tacky decoration. She'd disappeared while I was pondering. I stood and rounded the corner to the only room she could've run off to without my noticing—the kitchen. Predictably there she was, rifling through the refrigerator in search of something edible—much as I had done prior to beginning my instant ramen endeavor.

While the phrase _only true friends skip the "hello" and go straight to the fridge_ ran through my mind, I breathed a heavy sigh and made my way back to the stove, figuring that the water in the abandoned pot would either be completely gone or boiling rapidly. To both my shock and utter confusion, the surface of the water was at rest, completely untouched by the apparently-absent influence of thermal energy. The resulting groan that escaped my lips was enough to make Alex's upper half emerge from the refrigerator, a piece of ham dangling from her mouth.

"Ut's s'mattuh?" she mumbled around the slice of pork, and I could've sworn my right eye twitched.

"Stove's broken," I responded bluntly, and my cousin cocked her head to the side like a curious puppy. She stuffed the rest of the ham into her mouth, chewed for a while with a thoughtful expression on her usually-blank face, then swallowed loudly.

"Lemme see," was the only thing she said before violently shoving me out of the way. Whether the violence was actually intended or accidental was unknown to me, since usually any amount of force directed my way is enough to knock me on my butt—usually with a significant amount of flailing and thrashing on the way down. This time was no different, and I soon found myself sitting discontentedly on the beige carpet, a considerably irritated look on my face.

"Fine," I muttered, more out of habit of wanting to get the last word in rather than actually granting Alex my permission to examine the apparently-faulty stove; she would've continued regardless were said permission not given, so in the end the muttered "fine" was quite redundant.

While Alex studied the knobs and dials of the stove, I contented myself with lying on the floor and staring at the patterns on the ceiling. I sort of spaced out, lying there like that and wordlessly questioning why it was so quiet—I couldn't help but feel that, were Alex truly thinking, I should've been hearing the squeak of a hamster wheel.

The silence lulled me into some kind of stupor in which I was half asleep and half just sort of staring into space like one of those creepy fortune-tellers before they announce in a screechy voice that your future holds nothing but doom and despair. As a result, the sudden loud, obnoxious cackle that Alex emitted, (also much like that of a creepy fortune-teller), startled me so badly that I let out an extremely undignified squeak and scrambled to my feet, looking for the nearest sharp or blunt object to kill someone with, should such a thing become necessary in the immediate future.

Violence in the form of self-defense didn't seem to be something I needed to worry about at the moment; however, when the initial adrenaline rush died down enough for me to actually survey the scene in front of me, I began to worry that perhaps I would need to call the authorities to pick up my now seemingly-insane cousin, who was giggling so hard that her face was turning an unhealthy shade of crimson.

"Uh…" was the first thing to come from my mouth, and I had to blink several times and shake my head before I could organize my thoughts enough to form a more coherent sentence. "Are you okay…?" I asked tentatively when my mind had been put into some semblance of order.

Alex's loud guffawing had died down to a seemingly-endless string of hardly-suppressed snickers and giggles. She held up one finger, her other arm wrapped around her middle as though her torso were in immediate danger of exploding like a building in a Michael Bay film.

I waited patiently until her laughter had died down to a pitiful and constant wheezing. Wiping tears from her eyes, she straightened up and winced, her hand going to her side again, then falling away. She lifted her highly amused and now not-so-insane gaze to meet my both highly irritated and just as highly confused one. I arched an eyebrow in silence.

Wordlessly, Alex took hold of my wrist and, despite my protests, began to half-drag me over to the stove; by this time I had decided that yes, Alex was a naturally rough and violent person. Yanked off balance by her impatient tugging on my wrist, I stumbled in the general direction of the stove after her, figuring that if I didn't, she'd rip my arm off; I was fairly certain that I would need all of my limbs for one thing or another in the future, so following her willingly seemed in my best interest. Letting go of me, Alex leaned idly against the counter while I brought my wrist up to my chest, cradling it there and glaring at my cousin for all I was worth. She didn't seem to care, which only irked me further, but I let it slide.

Alex didn't seem to be in any hurry to explain why she'd dragged me (quite literally) over to the stove, so I hastened the beginning of my own enlightenment with a rather annoyed, "_What_?"

"Look at the stove," my cousin instructed simply, and I turned my attention to the standard kitchen appliance. I was expecting to see something wrong with it, but nothing really stood out to me. It was a stove. It had a door, four burners, and some knobs and dials. It was set up against the wall, next to the counter. It was just a stove.

"It's just a stove," I voiced my thoughts in the exact way I'd had them, and Alex rolled her eyes.

"Uh-huh," was her well thought out reply, though I silently thought that she could do to lose the attitude and just tell me what the heck I was supposed to be looking at. She indicated to the piece of kitchenware again, but I only stared at her, pushing my glasses up on my nose—more a gesture of impatience than anything else.

Alex's expression lost its smugness, taking on a look of genuine surprise. "You seriously don't see it?" she asked, and it was my turn to roll my eyes. I stared at the patterns on the ceiling for another half a second.

"It might help to actually know what I'm supposed to be looking for," I hinted, and then the arrogance returned to her eyes. She pointed a finger at one of the dials on the stove; rather than immediately turning my gaze in the direction she was indicating, I took about five seconds to observe the fact that Alex bit her nails.

"Mm," I hummed when I'd finally lifted my gaze to the dial in question. It was off-white, like the rest of the stove, with little black numbers and words. Yup, it was a dial. A dial-y dial indeed. "What about it?" I was beginning to wonder if there really was something I was supposed to be looking at, but I was also hoping that my outwardly-expressed ignorance would annoy my cousin to the point of facepalming.

To my disappointment, Alex was surprisingly patient with me. "Read it," she commanded, and I felt a small twinge of exasperation at being told what to do like some kind of kid. Sure, people still offered me kids' menus in restaurants, but I was _not_ a child. I pulled myself out of my silent ranting and adjusted my glasses again, this time with the intent of actually bringing something into focus.

Alex was still pointing accusingly at the dial, so I swatted her hand away and earned a cross smack on the head, to which I made a sound of annoyance but otherwise ignored. Leaning forward, I examined the stove dial more closely, reading the tiny black text idly.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the little black numbers, one through nine, were the heat settings for the burner corresponding to each dial. This particular dial was related to the burner I'd been using to boil water—or attempting to use, rather. There were two other settings as well—the first was LO. My expression changed to one of disdain as I pondered whether it was really that difficult for the manufacturers to add the W in there as well. Predictably, the other setting was HI, and I had to suppress both a groan and the growing urge to write a stern letter to every stove manufacturer simply to express the importance of proper spelling. The longer I stared at the HI, the more I began to think that it looked as though the stove were attempting to greet its user like some kind of personal computer would.

I put the thought out of my mind and did one last quick scan of the dial. The dial-y dial that was very dial-y indeed. It suddenly struck me as odd that the little red arrow that indicated the current heat setting wasn't pointing to any of the numbers. Brow creased in confusion, my gaze flicked over to the arrow in question.

Chain reactions are fun—not as fun, however, when they come in the form of multiple realizations. This usually results in a sudden flood of information that almost always leads to a massive headache—also called an epiphany of sorts. As soon as my eyes landed on the tiny red arrow, my attention was drawn to the only word next to the dial that wasn't misspelled—the one I'd apparently overlooked more than once. _OFF._ The realization that the burner had never been on to begin with led to my sudden comprehension as to why Alex had been giggling like a deranged psychopath when she'd decided to investigate why the water in the pot wasn't boiling. This thought gave me insight as to why the water hadn't been boiling in the first place.

The seconds that followed my realization were void of sound except for Alex's resumed snickering.

Another thing about random epiphanies: they always lead to epic facepalms.


End file.
